Don't Tell

“Laurel?” I asked, misunderstanding her. “It looks like a climbing rose.”

“It is. I named her Lauren.”

“Oh.” I wondered if it was a coincidence that she had given the plant my name. “Then we’re called the same thing,” I remarked cheerfully.

But Nora was frowning now, the vertical crease between her eyes deepening, the troubled world inside her more real to her than the one outside.

“Will you get me some fishing line?” she asked. “I use it to tie up Lauren. Morning glories will twine themselves. But roses have to be tied or else their arms will fall and strike you, and their thorns will make you bleed.”

I mulled over her strange way of describing her work, trying to understand what lay behind the words.

“There’s fishing line in the boathouse. Will you get it?” she asked. “I don’t go in there. It’s full of water.”

“No problem,” I said.

“You’ll need the key.”

“It’s locked? Why?’ I asked.

Nora twisted her hands. “Because she’s in there. She goes there to sleep during the day.”

“Who?”

“Sondra.”

My breath caught in my throat. “You mean my mother?

She’s dead.”

“She sleeps there during the day,” Nora replied. “Be quiet when you go in or you will wake her.”

She was serious. A chill went up my spine.

“I’ll show you where the key is,” Nora said, walking backward a few steps, then turning to hurry on.

About thirty feet from the boathouse she stopped.

Standing next to her, I surveyed the old building, which was nestled in the bank where the river curved, straddling the border between Aunt Jule’s and Mr. Frank’s property. The boathouse had deteriorated badly. Its roof buckled, two shutters hung off their hinges, and many of the wood shingles were broken. As far back as I could remember, there hadn’t been a boat in the house. We used to put our crab traps there and fish off its roof. Now we’d probably fall through.

“Do you see her?” Nora whispered.

“No.”

“She’s asleep,” Nora said, her voice barely audible. “All night she swims out by the dock, then she comes here at dawn. She wants to stay in the darkness.”

“That makes no sense,” I replied in a voice too loud. “Why would she do that?”

“She’s looking for her little girl.”

My throat felt tight when I swallowed. I strode ahead and found both the land entrance and the doors to the river closed and padlocked. The shutters were loose, but the windows were boarded up.

“Where’s the key?” I asked.

“On a hook behind the shutter,” Nora said, hanging back.

I found the key and unlocked the padlock. Nora crept closer. I laid the padlock on the ground, pulled back the latch, then opened the door.

After being in the bright sunlight, I couldn’t see a thing.

Cautiously I stepped inside. The smell of stagnant water, earth, and rot was overwhelming. It wouldn’t be hard to believe that someone was dead in here.

I remembered there was a narrow walkway lining three sides of the building, surrounding the area of water where a boat would float. Along the wall to the right there used to be a light with a pull-chain. I felt my way toward it.

“Where’s the line kept, Nora?” I called out to her.

“In the loft,” she answered softly.

Great. I’d probably climb into a rat colony. But I went on, hoping that in helping Nora I’d win her trust, as well as prove to her that my mother wasn’t here. I felt the beaded chain and yanked down hard. Nothing. I reached up and touched an empty socket.

At least my eyes were adjusting. I saw the outline of the ladder to the loft just a few feet ahead of me and started toward it.

“Don’t close the door, Nora,” I called to her. “I need all the light I can get. Did you hear? I said don’t—” The door shut.

“Nora? Nora!” I shouted. “No-ra!”

five

It was pitch black inside. I kept my hands on the wall and took a step toward the door. “All right, Nora,” I called, struggling to keep my voice calm, “what are you doing?”

Metal scraped against metal. She was fastening the padlock.

“Nora!”

I rushed toward the door. My toe caught on the uneven boards and I pitched headlong in the dark. My fingers touched the ledge of a window frame but slipped off. I teetered on the edge of the walkway, my ankle wobbling. I couldn’t stand the thought of falling into the foul water, the water where Nora said my mother slept.

I caught my balance again and sank down on my knees. I didn’t care whether Nora was playing a prank or truly afraid, I was angry. I banged my fists against the wall. “Nora! Let me out!”

Her voice was faint. “Lauren?”

“This isn’t funny,” I said. “Unlock the door.”

“She’s awake!” Nora cried out.

“What?”

“She’s awake!” Nora sounded out of breath, as if she were running away.

“Come back here.”

There was no reply. I rested my head against the wall, thinking about what to do. Then, in the oppressive darkness and silence, I heard it: the movement of water, its restless shift from side to side in the boat-house. I couldn’t see the water, but I could hear it, slapping the walls, tumbling back on itself. Something was stirring it up.

I listened as it grew more turbulent. Was it some animal?

Had one gotten through the tangle of nets abandoned at the entrance? Something was in the water, something Nora must have heard or seen before.

She’s looking for her little girl, Nora had said. I shivered.

My mother was always looking for me, panicking as soon as I’d disappear from sight. I cowered against the boathouse wall and flinched with each slap of the water, feeling — or imagining — water droplets on my arms.

Then the lapping grew softer. The water became eerily quiet again.

I took a deep breath. Something ordinary is going on here, I told myself. Figure it out, Lauren; two people out of touch with reality is one too many.

A boat wake — that would explain the sudden movement of water. I hadn’t heard a powerboat pass, but I was focused on other things; perhaps I didn’t notice it. I rose to my feet.

What was Nora thinking? I wondered. That she had gotten rid of me, locking me with my mother in the boathouse?

I called out several times and received no response. I needed something heavy to bang against the door. The padlock wouldn’t give way, but the old hinges might I glanced around. Small cracks of light between the boards allowed me to orient myself. I remembered that tools had been kept in the loft and made my way slowly down the walkway. Grasping the ladder, I began to climb it, hoping none of the rungs were rotted through.

When I got to the top, I reached out gingerly. My fingers touched something metallic and small — a chain, a piece of jewelry. I tucked it in my pocket and continued to search. At last I found an object with a long handle and a cold steel end. Perfect! An ax.

I carefully backed down the ladder and felt my way to the door. Perhaps it would be smart to shout a few more times, I thought, before swinging away like Paul Bunyan.